


And Her Lips Are Like the Galaxy's Edge

by latinaeinstein (oneforyourfire)



Category: EXO (Band), Pentagon (Korea Band)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), F/F, Face-Sitting, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 17:12:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17125427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/latinaeinstein
Summary: “If this were a really cliched queer-friendly movie. Thenyes, you’d get the girl.”





	And Her Lips Are Like the Galaxy's Edge

**Author's Note:**

> written for 2014 edition of nabisonyeo (girlexo) exchange
> 
> also additional content warnings for: side!girl!Kyungsoo/Sehun, brief girl!Chanyeol/Jongdae, brief!girl!Lee Jonghyun/girl!Jino, passing mention of unrequited preteen!Baekhyun/girl!Chanyeol

Chanyeon rights her shirt sleeves, tugs at her hemline, fiddles with her hair, but juts out her chest, smacks her gum in affected nonchalance.

She’s more gangly than graceful, leaning back against the brick wall just outside the courtyard, just outside the school gym. Too long, too many limbs. Not the gazelle, her mother reassures her she is, but an _ostrich_ , a _giraffe_ maybe.

But she hikes her skirt higher, exposing a non-regulation amount of pale legs, knobby knobby knees. She crosses and uncrosses her legs as she twirls her hair, bites on her bottom lip as she waits.

Kyungsoon, her best friend, always asks her what she’s hoping to accomplish with this. Her eyes solemn, her voice sympathetic. And Chanyeon, Chanyeon doesn’t know. Another forbidden glance maybe, a potential almost attraction, the bobbing ponytail of a fleeting acknowledgment. But it’s worth it. Whatever it is, it’s worth it.

Chanyeon curls her body forward as the gym door opens with a bang, and the cheerleaders—freshly showered, extra loud—come out with a sudden, loud chorus of giggles and chatter. Chanyeon’s breath catches in her throat.

Cho Jinhee is honestly the most radiant being Chanyeon has ever beheld. A delicate beauty of soulful eyes, soft cheeks, pouty lips. Small, slight, but strong. She’s shy, soft, sweet, too. Unassuming. But—but on stage, pompoms in hand, skirt distressingly high—she’s a goddess. She’s everything Chanyeon’s ever wanted.

Jinhee puffs out her cheeks as she fiddles with the strap of her duffle back, bouncing it on her shoulder, waiting, waiting for her best friend. She’s close enough that Chanyeon can see the water beading near her jawline as Jinhee leans forward with a laugh, claps her hand against Junghyeon’s bare shoulder.

Chanyeon’s heart drops to somewhere near her dusty loafers as Junghyeon tugs her into a clumsy, tight hug.

And Chanyeon isn’t even sure what she’s hoping to accomplish in this. Just that she’s been compelled to perform this ritual every Tuesday and Thursday for the past two years, passing the time by idling until 4:10. When Jinhee will emerge, towel-dry hair pulled into a tight, high pony tail, the strap of her bra loose and hanging out of her black tank top.

Junghyeon and Jinhee walk arm in arm, fingers laced as they pass by, and Chanyeon instantly deflates. Berates. Hates— _herself_ , her _feelings_. But not Jinhee. No, never _ever_ Jinhee. No, Chanyeon writes poems, songs, diary entries about her. Attends football, baseball, soccer games just for her. Chanyeon wants, _loves_ with a quiet, desperate sort of intensity that leaves her trembling at the passing waft of Jinhee’s body wash, the sunny promise of her soft, crinkly smile. But at least, Kyungsoon has consoled, Chanyeon only pines in the quiet, only _sort_ of pathetic way. At least it’s not, you know, like, _get the fuck over it_ serious. At least it’s still manageable.

“This needs to stop,” Kyungsoon tells her, nonetheless, seconds, minutes, _hours_ later, interrupting Chanyeon’s self-destructive thought loop of “she’s so perfect, maybe if I was perfect, how do I get more perfect, I need to stop doing this, no I need to keep going.”

Kyungsoon plops down beside her. Her legs extend to about Chanyeol’s shin, and the dust from her sneakers taps against Chanyeon’s bare skin.

Chanyeon purses her lips, and Kyungsoon sighs heavily. Taps her foot harder, kicks almost, as if to make it hurt. But they’ve been best friend since girl scouts, when Kyungsoon intervened, punched a boy the cabin over for making fun of Chanyeon’s ears. And Kyungsoon always has Chanyeon’s best interests in mind.

“What are you hoping to accomplish?” she asks, once more. As if Chanyeon has been able to provide a definite answer for the past two years she’s been doing this. As if she expects her to speak through her feelings. As if, as if she expects Chanyeon to _have_ an answer.

Because Chanyeon _knows_. Chanyeon _has_ more exciting, more productive things she could be doing with her time, but Chanyeon—Chanyeon needs this.

“I don’t know,” Chanyeon breathes anyway. And there must be something extra vulnerable or broken in her voice—Jinhee, Jinhee doesn’t usually touch Junghyeon first, and they don’t usually hold hands, look like girlfriends, and what if what if Jinhee _is_ but Chanyeon’s missed her chance by waiting for that _something_ , what if everything is ruined, what if, what if—because Kyungsoon wraps an arm around her waist. She tugs insistently until Chanyeon’s head bumps against her shoulder. Tuts softly as she tilts her head down, pressing their temples together as her thumb rubs at Chanyeon’s lipstick. Tender, soft, kind.

Chanyeon wants to cry.

“It’s our last year,” Kyungsoon reminds her softly, hug only tightening as Chanyeon lets out this soft, wet sigh. “If you’ve been—if you want to—”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Chanyeon whispers, and Kyungsoon’s lips are soft as they press fleetingly against her cheek. “If this were a movie,” Chanyeon grumbles.

Kyungsoo laughs, but nods, cheek brushing against hers. “You’d get the girl.”

“And maybe—maybe there’d be some dark parts along the way. Like dealing with my sexuality and people hating me” Chanyeol flushes as she recalls the way that she’d cried on Kyungsoon after telling her. The way she’d weighed her words, wrung her hands, stumbled over it “But—but I’d get the girl. People would have fallen in love with me. Would have _wanted_ that for me. Because I’m—I’m a good person, and I—I deserve…”

Kyungsoon forces her upright again as Chanyeon attempts to sag forward. Drop to the ground in a frustrated lump of limbs and plaid fabric.

“You have a meeting,” Kyungsoon reminds her, speaking against her cheek. Chanyeon nods.

♀♀♀

It had started as a joke almost. Or a strange sort of pride in not having one of those _normal_ pets.

Chanyeon’s dad was allergic to dog and cat hair. And Chanyeon wanted something to hold and squeeze and love. But her mother had balked at the idea of a pet rat—even though Chanyeon had printed out pamphlets on her school’s Window 98 to show just how clean and _good_ they were, look, mom, dad, _please_ —a chinchilla, a guinea pig, a lizard.

So at eight, Chanyeon had gotten a ferret, Buttons, a playful Siamese mitt. And at nine, along with Kyungsoon—who didn’t have a pet ferret, but was a _supporter_ —designed their very own flyers, cofounded a ferret pet owners club. Meetings Tuesdays 5 to 6 in the community center, Room 45. Bring your ferret and a smile.

(A nine-year-old Chanyeon had had to play major hard ball to pull off that final addendum, arguing to the point of tears about how she’d clean up their poop all by herself if necessary, just please)

And it’s Chanyeon’s longest legacy, its 9th anniversary just one month away.

Chanyeon’s own Buttons had died at the wizened age of 7, and Chanyeon had had a crisis of faith—had yet to replace him—but stayed because the club had given her purpose, comfort, friendship. And she _owes_ it to them.

And it’s mostly kids, scrawny, nerdy things. Like herself, but she’s their hero. Their _president_. Readily available with answers about playing, grooming, pet care. Cool because she’s tall and grown up and in _high school_ but understands the unmatched appeal of a furry friend, nuzzling into your face, loving you in that pure and unconditional kind of way.

Chanyeon more often than not finds herself playing counselor. Meetings consisting primarily of fielding questions, taking pictures, nuzzling pets, addressing the sort of preteen angst that colors most members’ lives.

Chanyeon stops at her usual 7-11, watches Kyungsoon blush dark, fidget nervously as the cashier, one Oh Sehun, rings her order with a lazy smile. Thanks them for their continued patronage.

(Kyungsoon pines in the quiet, _not at all_ pathetic, actually kind of adorable way)

 

Chanyeon lays out the snacks on the first two rows of desks before the others arrive.

And in front of those kids, Chanyeon forgets the pain of loving somebody that doesn’t love her back. Talks about making funeral arrangements for another lost friend—Minseon’s beautiful Stormy, may he rest in peace—planning a birthday party and a group play date in the park. Plays with Dusty, who scurries up her arm, nips at her thumb in an achingly familiar way. Adjourns the meeting with a wavery voice and an appeal for them to brainstorm how best to celebrate Yixing graduating the 8th grade, surprise party duly noted.

And Kyungsoon—vice president, secretary until Minseon feels up to coming back—taps her pen against her notebook, her hot cheeto-stained lips as the kids filter out.

“A boyfriend?” one boy manages, lingering, his hip pressing against one of the desks as Chanyeon plops beside Kyungsoon, takes a cursory glance at her neat, looping scrawl. His name is Baekhyun. He’s twelve, too loud, hair spiked up with too much gel in that awful middle school boy kind of way. But he’s almost endearing as he fiddles with the straps of his messenger bag. “You—do you have a boyfriend, noona?”

Chanyeon crinkles her nose in exaggerated disgust, wonders how long it took him to work up the courage to ask that question, as she watches his small hands clench and unclench. And this is a part of it, too. To be expected, Kyungsoon has reasoned. You’re a pretty girl, and you’re nice to them and you listen to them and you _understand_ them. And Chanyeon has become better at rerouting, or otherwise avoiding their advances.

“You know I can’t be tied down,” she jokes, casting a glance at Kyungsoon, who raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t make to move. Just tenses, coughs.

“I think—I think I _want_ to—”

Chanyeon smiles, curls forward to touch his arm, as she shakes her head, drops her voice. “I don’t want to ruin our beautiful friendship,” she insists.

“It won’t—it’s just—you’re so—” he counters, voice shaky. “I’ll be—I’ll be a good—”

Chanyeon softens her smile. Leans further forward to meet his eyes. He’s near tears, she realizes with a sudden lurch in her chest. “Baekhyun,” she whispers.

“I want to marry you,” he says.

She sighs. And it hurts, too. Hurting somebody else, especially when somebody loves with the gravity and depth and intensity of adolescence. He’s feeling love, heartbreak for the first time.

“It’s okay,” she says finally. And he inhales sharply, wetly, before racing out the door. Chanyeon falls back on desk, limbs hanging off cheap imitation wood as she sighs heavily.

“You’re never gonna see him again,” Kyungsoon says. “Or he’s gonna become fucking _awful_ , you know.”

“He’s just a kid,” Chanyeon murmurs, and Kyungsoon shakes her head. Shoves her notebook and ballpoint pen into her backpack as she stands up. Chanyeon loops her pinkie into the strap of Kyungsoon's backpack as she walks in contemplative silence. Thinks about how Baekhyun’s lower lip had trembled, how his eyes had shone with unshed tears. And Kyungsoon, who usually lets Chanyeon’s loud stream of consciousness rambling dictate their conversation, walks with her usual rectitude, her eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed.

At the intersection where they usually separate, Chanyeon hesitates, murmurs a soft, distressed, “If this were _his_ movie, if this was his—”

Kyungsoon rolls her eyes. “You would have—what—dated a preteen? Come on, Chanyeon.”

“If this were his movie—” Chanyeon insists, “he’d have some sort—”

“It’s a school boy crush, _Jesus_ , Chanyeon. He’ll survive. Just like...” Kyungsoon trails off. Rolls her eyes again. But this time there’s sometimes almost tender, almost endeared in the gesture as Kyungsoon stands on her tiptoes to pat Chanyeon’s cheek, rub at the corner of her mouth. Something like long-suffering, almost patronizing affection. “I know you like to think you’re super important and everybody’s ideal type—” Except to the girl that _matters_ “But I promise you, he’ll be fine. You don’t need to feel bad about it.”

Kyungsoon smiles up at her as Chanyeon nods slowly.

“Stop wallowing, it’s freaking me out. Don’t forget to call Minseon’s mom or study for Chem.”

♀♀♀

Wednesday, Chanyeon emails Baekhyun’s mom. Studies Chinese. Texts Joonmi to ask for History notes—Joonmi takes the most thorough notes, is always so _eager_ to help others, the perfect resource for when Chanyeon gets distracted and starts to doodle along the margins of her notebooks. Chanyeon makes arrangement to meet at the quad at around 8:45 AM. Writes another poem. Posts it to her Naver blog. Curls into her blanket, head pillowed by headphones. She falls asleep to the soft ambience of old Chinese film scores.

 

Thursday, Chanyeon waits at her usual spot, Joonmi’s photocopied notes on her lap, highlighter between her teeth. She skims the names of Spanish colonies, the specifics of the casta system as she swings her legs, hums.

The concrete digs into her thigh as she shifts, wrinkles her nose at the intrusive memory of Lee Junghyeon. Best friends since before, but something, something has changed. (Chanyeon’s been aching long enough to have pinpointed the subtle nuances of their relationship and something, something has _definitely_ changed).

They've been bonding at cheerleading camp, and Chanyeon _knows_ —logically, she _is_ logical—that it's probably like girl scouts sleepovers with her den when she was a preteen. Just a lot of friendship bracelets and shitty food and mosquito bites and dirt and trees and skipping stones on the river where you swam until your fingers turned pruny, your lips blue. Chanyeon _knows_ that it's probably just shadow puppets and pillow forts and games of scare each other shitless. But she can't help making it romantic and sexual and adorable—definitely not pathetic.

No, Chanyeon thinks, they probably held hands at night, fell asleep curled into each other, whispering secrets to one another in the lazy hum of summer. Probably made out for hours under those mosquito nets. Probably fucked on their bunks. Probably spelled each other’s names in the stars afterwards. Probably feel in love somewhere along the way. Probably _are_ in love. And God, it fucking _hurts_ , the sudden realization of it.

And honestly Jonghyeon has such nice hair and such nice skin and the _perfect_ body. An _actual_ gazelle, not an ostrich, not a giraffe. A gazelle, a lithe, graceful _gorgeous_ thing. Only busty, too. Busty and smart. And beautiful. So fucking beautiful. And Jinhee, Jinhee _deserves_ that. If she wants that. She deserves everything she wants.

But Chanyeon, Chanyeon—selfishisly—just wants Jinhee to like her back. Her heart lurches in her chest, and it’s hard to breathe, then. But she manages. Shaky, painful, unsteady, but still enough. She gulps back the insecurity and pain, plasters on a scowl, tries for a sort of sensual nonchalance as the doors open.

But after practice, with Chanyeon watching, Junghyeon laughs, tugs on Jinhee’s hand, slams her against the gym doors with a ringing laugh. And after practice, with Chanyeon watching, as the other cheerleaders leave, acknowledge the two with a fleeting bob, Jonghyeon leans forward to press their foreheads together. One hand at Jinhee’s waist, the other playing the loose tendrils of Jinhee’s wet, curled hair

But Chanyeon continues to watch, her heart shattering, as Junghyeon nuzzles their noses together, shifts to kiss Jinhee as the other giggles, melts into the caress. And Junghyeon’s lips are _close_ to Jinhee’s. Might _actually_ be brushing against them. And it's way too intimate as far as friendship touches are concerned, Chanyeon realizes. And it's not—it's not _fair_. And yet it is. Jinhee deserves her. Deserves the entire world.

But fuck, it fucking _hurts_

Fuck, Chanyeon can’t—

Chanyeon wants to cry but swallows it down. Hangs her head in shame when a tear manages to slip out. Because she’s stronger, better than this. She turns her body, curls forward to squeeze Joonmi’s notes between her trembling fingers. She breathes deep through her mouth, presses one fist to her stomach.

She startles when Kyungsoo slides besides her. Chanyeon exhales shakily, heart stuttering in her chest, voice thick, shaky. She melts into Kyungsoo’s side with a cut off whimper. “If this were a movie,” she says

Kyngsoon tugs her even closer. Chanyeon crumbles then, turns to sob into her chest. The ugly hiccuping, wheezy, tear streaky kind. Kyungsoon runs her fingers through her hair, whispers soothingly as Chanyeon’s shoulders shake.

“If this were a really cliched queer-friendly movie. Then _yes_ , you’d get the girl.”

Chanyeon sobs louder at that. The unfairness of it.

And Kyungsoo holds her hand the entire way home.

♀♀♀

That next Tuesday, she doesn’t go to the quad. Doesn’t wait for Jinhee. Tells herself it’s for the best. Sits at the library. Itchy. Purposefulness. She passes the time by sifting through her Chinese flashcards, fingers tracing over her own clumsy characters. Then gets antsy, wanders, drags her fingers across reference books. As she waits for Kyungsoon to be done with choir. She frowns pointedly at a neon-pink flyer for cheerleading tryouts the coming week.

Kyungsoon asks her to have a girls’ night on their way home. Doesn’t remind her about the meeting. Doesn’t turn right at the Chicken Palace like they should if they want to go to the community center. Doesn’t elaborate beyond a soft “I took care of it.”

And Chanyeon nods, smiles in hesitant gratitude. That night she drowns herself in melancholy synth beats. Bleeds out another poem.

 

Wednesday, right before Chinese, Jongdae turns in his seat to regard her. A senior, too, he’s got high cheekbones, warm eyes, a ringing laugh. “Chanyeon,” he drawls, elbows hanging off the sides of her desk, figure floating over her notes. And Chanyeon purses her lips at him. He barrels on, undeterred. “My lovely, lovely Chanyeon.”

He smiles, and his eyes crinkle with it as he exposes his perfect teeth.

He has a crush on her, Kyungsoon has informed her. Talks about Chanyeon sometimes during choir practice, when he thinks that Kyungsoon can’t hear. Just general stuff about how cool it is that she has such a vested interest in ferrets. How smart and funny she is. How pretty her smile is. How hot it is that she’s tall as fuck.

He’s _lovestruck_ , Kyungsoon has whispered, if your fleeting interest in boys ever becomes more than a passing curiosity.

And it hasn’t. And _won’t_ , probably. But he’s got this spark in his eyes as he croons her name, winks, his dark hair falling across his thick eyelashes. “ _I_ ,” he starts, pausing for emphasis, digging a thumb into his sternum “want to invite _you_ ” he gestures at Chanyeon with his clicktop pen, “and you” he winks, points at Kyungsoon “and any other cool people you two might know to my house this Friday. For a party. With music. And alcohol. And debauchery, if you’re so inclined.”

Chanyeon blinks, and Jongdae’s smile only widens. His chair creeks as he arches further forward in an apparent attempt at persuasion. His finger graze hers in their shuffle.

And Jongdae’s popular in that paradoxical bookish class clown sort of way. Charming to a fault. His voice oozes confidence even as his eyes shine with a certain heartachingly hesitant hope. Hope for Chanyeon. “Come on. Say yes.”

“Yes,” Kyungsoon answers for her.

Chanyeon turns to gape at her. The bell rings. Jongdae scribbles his number on the top of her notebook with a small smile.

“There might be other girls there,” Kyungsoon leans over to whisper mid-lecture.

And Chanyeon wants to say it doesn’t matter whether there are other girls, she only really cares about Jinhee. But she bites the inside of her cheek, the end of her pen, as she nods.

 

And Thursday, Chanyeon stuffs an overnight bag with a change of underwear, socks, her pajamas. (She already has her toothbrush, contact solution, fresh uniform stashed at Kyungsoon’s). Laughs when they stop at the 7-11 for popsicles and Cheddar Popcorn, and Oh Sehun—of _course_ it would be Oh Sehun—offers a wrinkly-faced smile at a rapidly blinking, stiff-shouldered Kyungsoon.

And girls’ nights consist of watching movies in their pajamas, dyeing their lips blue from too many popsicles, laying on Kyungsoon’s bed and laughing as they leaf through magazines.

They pause at 8PM to order pizza. 9PM to thumb through their history notes, write clumsy Chinese on Kyungsoon’s white board, lower their voices as they talk about having to abandon the club in a couple of months, pick a successor for after they both leave. And at 10PM, Chanyeon smiles bemused as Kyungsoon—Nature Republic facial mask clinging to her flushed face—buries her face into her own pillow and murmurs softly about Oh Sehun. Their legs knock together, and Chanyeon tries not to laugh as Kyungsoon comes the closest she ever really does to _admitting_. (Kyungsoon, Kyungsoon doesn’t do emotions the way Chanyeon does)

And Chanyeon doesn’t want to interrupt Kyunsoon. In her stilted, almost gushing. Kyungsoo’s murmurs out faux casual mentions of how his long his legs are, how strong his fingers are, how he’s got this mole on his neck you kind of want to kiss, you know. But it’s not like—ah—it’s not like a _real_ crush. Kyungsoon just likes how awkwardly he handles himself, adorably stiff with his limbs, she insists. So it’s not a _real_ crush that way. Just to note that he fumbles with his words sometimes, moves rigid and careful like he’s still just a little uncomfortable with the amount of space he occupies. But he occupies it so _well_.

He’ll probably be at Jongdae’s party, Chanyeon observes, nudging Kyungsoon with her bare foot, and Kyungsoon groans. Admits into her stripped pillow case that that’s maybe why she agreed on Chanyeon’s behalf.

♀♀♀

That Friday night, Kyungsoon worries in front of Chanyeon’s bathroom mirror, frowns, frets over her own makeup, outfit—something _tight_ , lowcut, that curves perfect around her ample breasts, the roundness of her ass, the thickness of her thighs—and pauses periodically to sigh over Chanyeon’s own attempts. Her dress is tight, too. Short. Dark blue. And her hair is curled, falls heavily over her bare shoulders. But her makeup, her makeup isn’t very good.

Kyungsoon jumps onto Chanyeon’s bathroom counter, legs spreading unceremoniously to wrap around Chanyeon’s waist, drag her forward. Kyungsoon surveys her hair with a soft tsk, thumbing underneath Chanyeon’s lashline at her smeared, sloppy attempts at eyeliner, rubbing at the corner of her reddened lips. Chanyeon curls further forward at Kyungsoon’s insistent tugging, blinks slowly at how wide and beautiful Kyungsoon’s eyes look lined in black.

“Close your eyes,” Kyungsoon says, fumbling behind her for the liquid liner. “We have a cheerleader to seduce.”

 

They stop at the 7-11. Kyungsoon charms a group of women into buying them three bottles of soju. And Chanyeon takes the opportunity to text Jongdae. He responds with too many emojis. Several screenshots of different Naver nap routes to his house. An offer, also, if she needs any help, to come pick her up. Chanyeon is endeared. Kyungsoon is amused.

A block down from Jongdae’s house, they plop down on the sidewalk at the park, hands between their legs to preserve some measure of decency, and they drink soju straight from the bottle. Kyungsoon curses softly when some of her lipstick smears off on the lip of her green bottle, and Chanyeon laughs.

They hold hands as they stumble the last couple of steps towards Jongdae’s house.

 

Chanyeon feels the alcohol as she staggers through his front door, blinking slowly in the darkened room. She feels the dull throb of tipsiness, if not outright intoxication, as Kyungsoon releases her hand. And Chanyeon likes the pleasant thrum of it. Likes the way that the heavy bassline oozing from Jongdae’s speakers rattles her bones, makes her heart stutter and well inside her chest.

It makes her feel fluid, and Chanyeol thrives on the attention she warrants as she glides through the crowd. That imagined—maybe even genuine—adoration. She feels emboldened, animated, gorgeous, perfect with it.

And the alcohol already singing in her veins, the alcohol trickling down her throat as she tosses her head back, it makes her louder than she needs to be. Brighter. Happier. And Jinhee is watching her. Not rapt, not captivated, not the way that Chanyeon watches her. But it’s like she can’t look away, and of course, Chanyeon thinks, I deserve this.

Chanyeon holds up a peace sign in front of her face by way of greeting, laughs into the back of her hand, licks there, as Jinhee blinks. She’s perched across one of Jongdae’s couch, cradling her own beer, and she offers a small, tight smile.

And Chanyeon can feel’s Jinhee’s eyes on her as she turns away—they’re so _heavy_ , luxurious—so she plays heedless. Throws back her head with laughter, tosses her long hair over her shoulder as she drinks more, dances right there in the middle of the living room, hands in her hair, hips swaying in a drunken smoothness to the filthy beat.

And Chanyeon’s wearing a pushup bra, and all eyes are on her, riveted on her. She’s important and beautiful and vibrant and so alive. And she doesn’t—she doesn’t _need_ Jinhee’s approval. She’s fine just as is. She’s in love just as is.

And when she spots Jongdae, leaning against his kitchen counter, hip jutting out, neck bared as he laughs, takes a long, long swig from my beer, Chanyeon runs a hand down his arm, fingers skittering over warm, tan skin. He shudders, pauses mid-conversation to follow her.

He plops down on the sofa beside the door, motions for her to sit down, too, but she straddles his lap instead. He widens his eyes, lets out a long exhale of “You look amazing,” as she reaches out to play with his hair. He’s still in his uniform, school tie loosened; it bobs as he swallows slowly. His hands seem to hesitate at her waist. His eyes are dark, his lips slick as he licks them, and his hair messy and falling in his eyes. He’s hot in a lazy, ruffled boy kind of way. And Jinhee, Jinhee was watching but doesn’t _want_ her. And maybe—maybe even _definitely_ —her fleeting interest in boys can become more than a passing curiosity. Maybe she can, for Jongdae’s movie’s sake.

Chanyeon laughs into the kiss she presses to Jongdae’s mouth, lets her mouth fall open when Jongdae cups her face. And it’s nice. As far as kisses with boys are concerned. His lips are warm and soft, and when he works his tongue inside, it’s hesitant, slow, sweet. He’s smaller, slighter, but Chanyeon lets him lift her further onto his lap, lets him tug her closer. She sighs, moans into his mouth. He deepens it at the sound, tongue curling around hers, urging her to rock down on him as he breathes her name.

“I really like you,” he says, his voice all breathy, words all slurred against her lips. His eyes are heavy-lidded, and his lips are parted and slightly pink from Chanyeon’s lipstick. “You’re so pretty, Chanyeon, and I really like you.”

And, of course, she thinks, of course you would like me, but the awareness of Jongdae’s words cut through the pleasant haze of approval, of inebriation. Chanyeon shakes her head so hard her bangs fall in her eyes. Jongdae’s smile falters, leaves his eyes. It makes Chanyeon suddenly sad.

“Don’t like me,” she tells him, in a stage whisper.

And he’s smaller than her, but the way his hand falls to her throat, cradling her jawline, makes _her_ feel small. Almost vulnerable. Her neck rolls forward so she can press closer, forehead to forehead. “Why?”

She shakes her head, harder this time. The force of it makes her dizzy, has her exhaling a little shakily as Jongdae’s other hand curls around her waist. It clenches and unclenches as he regards her carefully. And oh wow he really is handsome.

“I don’t—boys.”

Jongdae blinks, and something flashes in his eyes—confusion, Chanyeon thinks, maybe, maybe even anger—and he laughs weakly, shifts to rub over her lip.

“Does this count?”

And as Chanyeon squirms, she can feel how he’s pressing against her thigh—hard—and _oh_ , she thinks, there are consequences and feelings and _reality_. Oh, _oh_ , Jongdae.

Chanyeon’s forehead slides further against his, and his eyelashes kiss against his cheekbone as he shifts, urges her to meet his eyes. She tries to wriggle back, presses more fully against it. Jongdae exhales shakily, locks her hips to hold her in place.

“Does it count for you?” she whispers.

“Yes.”

His hand smooths down her side, and it’s nice, reassuring, wanting, affirming, as it skates over warm fabric, teases at overheated skin.

“It—it counts—for me, too,” she decides, sighs. Jongdae rubs at her lips once more, tips at her chin with his forehead. And it’s like he wants to keep touching her—just affectionate, just brushing skin.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. But can I just—while you’re here—can I just—?” He kisses her eyelids, noses at her cheekbone. Chanyeon’s eyes flutter shut with a breathy exhale at the tenderness of it. She can feel the soft, sad, eye curling smile he presses at her throat.

He sighs once more, and Chanyeon feels that throb of guilt, deep in her gut as she swallows slowly. _If this were his movie_ , she starts to think. But Kyungsoon’s own voice—in her head—interrupts that thought, bleeds it out before it has a chance to take root.

Jongdae’s voice is thick with disappointment as Chanyeon, pulls away, wraps her fingers around one of Jongdae’s wrists. “You’re so amazing,” he tells her. “You’re so amazing—just _fuck_ —whoever you—you’re so—”

Chanyeon smiles at him as she rises on wobbly legs. Starts to stumble towards the bathroom.

 

And it’s kinda fair, she figures, as she scans the room, sees Junghyeon and Jinhee. Together. It’s a sort of cosmic tit-for-tat. Or a cruel reminder that no, Chanyeon _doesn’t_ deserve Jongdae. Doesn’t deserve Jinhee, either.

Because Junghyeon is leaning over Jinhee, reaching out to caress her cheek, whisper-soft and tender and delicate and affectionate, and every way that Chanyeon wants to touch Jinhee. And their legs and fingers are locked together and they’re laughing and shifting closer and closer. And then Jinhee is smiling up at Jungheyon, dragging a thumb against Junghyeon’s cheek as she closes the distance in between their lips. And _fuck_ , it’s really soft and natural, like they’ve done it thousands of times before. Like they’ve learned one another’s mouths. Jinhee tugs Junghyeon into her lap, tipping her own head back to kiss her harder, her hands in Junghyeon’s long, black hair.

And the painful vividness of it slices through the soft thrum of drunkenness, and it hurts. It fucking _hurts_. And it makes sense. And it’s perfectly fair. And Jinhee—Jinhee _deserves_.

Chanyeon, flustered, heart lurching, lets out a sudden sob, nonetheless. As she looks for Kyungsoon. Clenches her fists tight to keep from rubbing childishly at her stinging eyelashes. She feels like she’s gonna throw up.

Searching clumsily, she finds her. Kyungsoon in her sinfully tight dress, standing on her tipoes, tugging a redfaced Sehun’s neck to pull him even closer. Sehun’s bends forward, hand on Kyungsoon’s cheek, and of course it makes sense—of course _they_ make sense—and maybe, maybe this is Kyungsoon’s movie. And maybe Chanyeon is just the tragic, broken foil, a side character just to highlight the perfection of Kyungsoon’s perfect love. Maybe she’s just a footnote, Chanyeon thinks bitterly, swallows thickly.

Chanyeon staggers into the bathroom, cries there with her head between her legs. Chanyeon wants to melt into the tile. Become one with the porcelain. She whimpers about all of her insecurities and vulnerabilities until Kyungsoon texts her weeks, days, hours, minutes later. Exclamation point heavy, about how Sehun tastes like Colgate and Cass beer and cherry chapstick and how warm his hands feel on her waist. And how _fuck_ she likes him so much, Chanyeon. He’s so dreamy. And where is she, Kyungsoon’s been looking for her.

Jongdae calls for a cab for them, holds Chanyeon’s hand a beat too long. And Chanyeon cries when she gets home again.

♀♀♀

Tuesday, Chanyeon returns to her usual spot at the quad. She spend the first half of her time sifting through the pictures that Kyungsoon had printed out for her on Monday. They’d emailed the members on Monday, too. Told them they planned on holding elections in two weeks. And Chanyeon leafs through the printer pages of what Kyungsoon calls their tiny army, of the insecure weird pet owner variety.

Chanyeon finds herself lingering on one Lu Han. He’s bespectacled, freckled, has bad hair, worse braces—his awkwardness speaks to Chanyeon on a very emotional, cellular level—and he’s got a good heart. A great big heart and only slightly wavery speaking voice and _passion_. The kid’s got passion in spades.

And the second half of her time, Chanyeon spends twisting words in her brain, fusing and breaking open phrases as she reflects on Jinhee. Why she loves. Whether she can stop. She scribbles hastily in the white space bordering Lu Han’s face as she murmurs softly to herself.

And at this point, Chanyeon has nothing to lose, she realizes. Spine stiffening as the gym doors crash open. She’s shameless, desperate, heedless with the realization.

Chanyeon pulls one leg up to her chest, leaves the other dangling. The concrete digs into her bare skin from how high she’s pulled her skirt.

She catches Jinhee’s eyes. Licks her lips slowly. Doesn’t drop her gaze like she’s aching, too. Watches as Jinhee flushes. Turns away.

She isn’t holding Junghyeon’s hand. And Chanyeon allows herself that small victory as she exhales loudly.

 

Sehun smiles at them shyly, reaches out to squeeze Kyungsoon’s hand as she skates bills and coins over the scratched counter. Chanyeon fights the urge to roll her eyes in annoyed affection as Kyungsoon squeezes back. Whispers that she’ll text him later.

 

And at the meeting, as she goes over the rules and expectations of each role, establishes eye contact with the most promising, consoles a soft-voiced Minseon for her loss, Chanyeon decides to try out for the team. As one sort of last ditch attempt at redemption. One last humiliation before she lets it all go.

Kyungsoon looks vaguely displeased with the turn of events. But IMs her links to cheerleading tryout videos when she gets home. Offers her room for practice since it’s bigger.

Chanyeon waves her off with a smiling emoji. Swears she’ll be fine.

♀♀♀

Chanyeon hypes herself by listening to Beyonce all morning. Tries to think of the sort of dark promise and approval in Jongdae’s eyes that night on his couch. How this _has_ to be Chanyeon’s movie. The sort of angsty exposition to make the eventual resolution all the sweeter.

Leg jittery, she watches the other girls fuss over their clothes, bob their heads as they murmur their count, practice their moves.

But Chanyeon glances back and forth from her phone—her Naver blog—and all the girls she lets cut in front of her. If she’s last, Chanyeon reasons, she’ll be memorable. Will have more time to marinate in confidence.

And it’s Jinhee—captain—and Junghyeon—cocaptain—and Jungah—Junior Varsity darling—with their notepads and tight ponytails and easy smiles.

The opening chords to Beyonce’s “Flawless” remix drip through the auditorium, and Chanyeon establishes deliberate eye contact with Jinhee as she pops out her hip, arches her chest.

 

But Chanyeon for all her bravado, for all her exuberance, still lacks grace, talent, limbs too clumsy. She falls, squawks.

She tries out. Stumbles. Chokes. Sobs.

Jinhee offers her a soft smile. A _kind_ one. It’s fucking awful.

And Chanyeon _hates_ that Jinhee can affect her so much. Because when it’s Jinhee, beautiful perfect Jinhee, blinking up at her _in kindness_ , Chanyeon feels wrong, crooked, off kilter.

She trips over herself, races out of the room as soon as she sees it, Jinhee’s kind smile. Bowing quickly to excuse herself, hair falling in her eyes. She can feel the telltale sting of tears, the rush to her nostrils, fights it as she staggers out.

 

All the girls have cleared out, and Chanyeon only runs as far as her usual spot by the quad, collapses, bends over it and cries. Hard and ugly, as the concrete digs into her stomach, grounds her nonetheless.

It doesn’t take long for her to hear footsteps, turn quickly, wiping at her face with the back of her hand.

It’s Jinhee.

Of _course_ , Chanyeon thinks, hysterically. It only makes sense.

“Chanyeon,” she says softly, and Chanyeon realizes it’s one of the first times they’ve spoken. And it really isn’t fair. “It’s okay.” She holds out her hand, places it on Chanyeon’s shoulder. Slow and soft, like approaching a wounded animal, touching a fragile thing. Chanyeon wants to brush back her hair, caress her face, kiss her mouth, _love_ her. “We have intermurals, and not everybody—not everybody is cut out for this, and that’s okay.” And her tenderness, her care make Chanyeon ache.

“I like you,” Chanyeon blurts out. “That why I—I _like_ you. I want to—girlfriend—”

And the words taste almost empty, ring hollow but they’re there, aloud. For Jinhee to hear and interrupt and _know_. And Chanyeon feels like she can breathe again.

Jinhee just blinks.

“And I just want you to like me. But I know that I’m not what you—I mean, when you have Junghyeon, why would you—?” Chanyeon’s voice catches in her throat.

“She’s not—we’re not—we just make out sometimes,” Jinhee supplies softly, filling in the silence, hands tightening to fists at her sides. “When she’s between boyfriends, girlfriends. She’s a good kisser. And she’s good at—” Jinhee trails off, flushes, looks away. “But we’re not—I don’t—”

Chanyeon doesn’t want to think about Junghyeon beautiful, beautiful Junghyeon. Giving Jinhee what she’s been dying to give her. Just as a leisure activity. Just when she’s in _between_.

“Over—over camp—you guys” Chanyeon gestures awkwardly.

Jinhee narrows her eyes slightly but nods. “The kissing was longer, but she—we didn’t—” Jinhee seems to catch that it’s not an appropriate conversation and trails off awkwardly, motions stiffly.

Chanyeon sighs with defeat, falls leans back on the wall, and Jinhee follows. Their bare thighs brush.

“You like girls,” Chanyeon says softly, and Jinhee nods slowly.

“And you do, too. _Me_. But you and Jongdae. You guys—you make a cute—”

“Jongdae’s—Jongdae’s not a _girl_. Jongdae’s not— _you_.”

“And—you know—Junghyeon wasn’t ever my—we can—I think maybe we can—if you—you’re cute, you know.”

Chanyeon colors. And Jinhee leans forward to kiss her. Just barely there. The briefest, warmest pressure against her lips. Chanyeon melts into it, floats on air the rest of the day. Has to be guided home by a bemused Kyungsoon, murmuring all the while “It’s a movie. It’s my movie. She’s in my movie, too.”

♀♀♀

5 months in, and this—Jinhee, naked, panting, sleek skin sliding on Chanyeon’s sheets—is hardly a new sight, but it leaves Chanyeon breathless, desperate, nonetheless.

Jinhee is disconcertingly flexible, shameless, performative in this. Her legs spread easily, and she lets Chanyeon watch as she gets herself off, fingers inside of herself, hand tangled in her own hair, Chanyeon’s name rolling off her bitten lips.

They’re going off to different schools—20 minutes on the subway, Chanyeon has determined—and she tugs her closer, kisses her desperately, tries to savor the _now_ as she tastes Jinhee’s soft moans. Feels the tremble that shakes her whole body as she continues to fuck down into her own hand. Chanyeon stops Jinhee with her fingers curled around her wrist.

“I want you,” Chanyeon says, and Jinhee shifts to wrap her legs around Chanyeon’s hips, breathe her name with a broken moan. Chanyeon’s hand slides down her waist, wraps around to tug her tighter. “I wanna—”

Jinhee grinds on her thigh, yanks at Chanyeon’s loose hair, uses it for leverage to pull herself harder. Chanyeon groans at the warm, wet pulse she feels grazing against her skin. She slides her fingers down to tease at Jinhee’s folds. Jinhee mimics her movement, and Chanyeon’s chin drags against Jinhee’s bare breasts as she whimpers.

“How do you want me?” Jinhee is murmuring, dragging nimble fingers back and forth, nosing at her cheekbone, speaking against the corner of her mouth. “Tell me what you want.”

And usually Chanyeon just gets off on the idea of Jinhee getting pleasure from her body. Answers with a deliberately breathy, deliberately wrecked “Please, just _do_ something, Jinhee.”

Because she wants what Jinhee wants. Just lets Jinhee decide.

On their lazier days, that means Jinhee eating her out for what feels like _hours_ , touching herself as she does it, burying all of her moans deep in Chanyeon’s body, before the older—dazed but eager to return the favor—spreads Jinhee’s legs and gets to work. And on their bolder days, that means Jinhee wearing a strap on, fucking into Chanyeon with these fluid rolls of her hips that have Chanyeon sobbing from pleasure, dragging angry red lines down Jinhee’s perfect thighs. And sometimes, sometimes even, at Jinhee’s prompting, Jinhee’s challenge, Chanyeon does it back. And it’s unbearably hot, looming over Jinhee as she falls part with heaving pants, broken chants. It’s unbearably hot watching her girlfriend be overwhelmed with pleasure. It’s a tried and true formula that yields dual, sobbing orgasms, and a warm grateful beautiful Jinhee curling possessively into her arms.

But tonight, Chanyeon is feeling extra bold, extra adventurous. “Jinhee, I want—want you to—can you just— _fuck_ —sit on my face,” she urges, pulling away to meet Jinhee’s eyes. They become heavier at the prospect, seem to burn with a certain want that has a fresh pulse of arousal shooting down towards Chanyeon’s core.

“Baby girl,” she says. “You _want_ —”

“ _Yes_.”

So Jinhee does.

And Chanyeon decides that this might be her favorite position yet. Jinhee, with her legs spread, bracketing Chanyeon’s shoulders as she grinds down experimentally, catches on a moan, before repeating the motion. Chanyeon arches up to lick more thoroughly, mouth open and wet as Jinhee writhes clumsily back and forth, whimpers, jerks. Jinhee braces one arm on Chanyeon’s wall, slides the other mindlessly up and down her own body. And Chanyeon grips her hips with the insides of her elbows, as he taps her thumb against Jinhee’s clit to drag out more sounds, more helpless jerks of her body

She grinds down, and Chanyeon watches through fluttering eyelids as Jinhee’s breasts heave up and down, as her hands scramble on the stucco of Chanyeon’s wall. She fucks down on Chanyeon’s tongue. And Chanyeon licks more sloppily, moves up and down, side to side. She wants to drown in the taste of Jinhee on her tongue. And she groans as Jinhee uses her face. Uses Chanyeon to get off.

Chanyeon can hardly breathe past the delicious quivering slickness. She moans against her nonetheless. Jinhee has this fullbody shudder when Chanyeon tongues more deliberately, spreads her wetly as she licks more and more.

“Fuck, Chanyeon,” Jinhee purrs. “ _Fuck_.”

And Chanyeon tightens her arms, locks Jinhee’s hips into place. Jinhee sobs. Chanyeon sets the pace then, and Jinhee whimpers, voice broken and desperate. And Chanyone usually lets her use her as she will, use her to get off. But now, now it’s urging Jinhee to _feel_. In the most exquisitely, achingly perfect way. Every slick deliberate glide of her tongue, every delicious roll of her finger until Jinhee can barely support herself, is cursing as she bucks mindlessly. And there’s a rush of power, a heady sort of affirmation as Jinhee begs for her.

Jinhee trembles in her arms, and Chanyeon can taste the reckless desperation of her response, as she noses at Jinhee’s clit, works her tongue more deeply inside.

Jinhee melts forward, gasps, moans, begs. “Chanyeon— _fuck_ —Chanyeon just please let me—I want—you, too.”

Chanyeon spares one more slow, filthy lick, one brief suck to Jinhee’s clit before she releases her. Jinhee turns, collapses clumsily.

They fall into each other like puzzle pieces, then.

Jinhee looms over her, long hair dragging over Chanyeon’s bare thighs as she tugs Chanyeon upward into her mouth. And Chanyeon can feel the tremor coursing through Jinhee’s thighs as she arches, mouths at Jinhee’s heat. There’s a jolt of pleasure, a moan buried in Jinhee’s core as Jinhee thumbs Chanyeon open, kisses succulently along trembling skin. Jinhee crashes her head forward, bites down on Chanyeon’s thigh when Chanyeon curls a finger inside of her, drags it deliberately.

Chanyeon tries to drag it out with lazy swipes of her tongue, fleeting curls of her fingers. She tries for luxurious teasing, but it devolves into a desperation as Jinhee gets to work. The pleasure that follows is staggering. Chanyeon moans at ever delicious curl of Jinhee’s tongue along the moisture at Chanyeon's’ slick folds, every perfect glide of Jinhee’s fingers inside of her. And Jinhee is way too good at ruining Chanyeon, reducing her to a needy mess.

Chanyeon’s entire body bows as she comes hard, grinds it out against Jinhee’s trembling lips.

Chanyeon is strung out, but she’s focusing on her once more. She flips them easily, and Jinhee lays there splay-legged, moaning as Chanyeon hums, her tongue stroking, her fingers scissoring, her eyes raking up and down the perfect expanse of Jinhee’s trembling, writhing body. Her head lolls back and forth, her hands tangle in Chanyeon’s hair as the taller quickens her pace.

And Jinhee spasms, seizes when she comes, pants out Chanyeon’s name in a broken, beautiful mantra as Chanyeon crawls up her body, collapses beside her. She’s clumsy, lazy limbs, a sated smile, her chin knocking against Chanyeon’s forehead as she curls herself closer. Jinhee cups her cheek.

Chanyeon’s mouth is slick with her juices, but she kisses her nonetheless. Licks her way into her mouth with a languid push of her tongue and a breathy sigh of her name. And Chanyeon is dazed, completely lax, the kiss warm and soft and much to perfect as it is for her to deepen it.

Chanyeon murmurs sleepily about how theirs is the perfect movie, and Jinhee hums in question but doesn’t belabor the point.


End file.
